


Twist the Throttle, Rev You Up

by smugrobotics



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Deepthroating, Drunk Sex, Face-Fucking, Kidnapping, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Power Play, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake goes to a biker bar that he frequents whenever he gets the itch to be used by someone bigger and stronger than him.</p><p>This time, he finds Bane, and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John doesn’t know how he gets himself into these situations. 

He’s a cop, and a pretty good one, too. Yeah, fair enough, most cops these days are ‘good’. It isn’t like Gordon’s heyday when the remaining veterans say finding an honest cop in Gotham was like finding a damn unicorn. Still, John’s always been proud of the fact that he’s never even been _tempted_ to go in on the take, not one time. 

But okay, yeah, he’s always had this _thing_. This stupid thing that doesn’t even matter most of the time because he’s a cop and he’s _professional_ , damn it. So what if the sight of a leather jacket stretched out over muscled biceps makes his mouth go dry? And so what if he rubs one out most nights to videos of burly guys holding down twinks and fucking them raw? So what if he sometimes presses down on bruises and pretends they were put there by someone else – someone bigger and stronger than him, someone dangerous? 

John Blake has a thing for bad boys. But it’s not his fault, alright? He’s from a broken home. He can’t help what his fucked up subconscious does.

It’s not like it’s a problem or anything. John keeps it in check, mostly through a mixture of rough porn and, on nights like tonight, visits to one of Gotham’s biker bars.

Which, he supposes, is how he ends up bent over a motorcycle, with some stranger’s hand on his cock and three fingers pumping slickly into his ass.

Maybe it’s more a problem than John initially thought.

Okay, back up. John should start from the beginning. 

He’s been feeling the itch for a couple of days when he finally gets up the nerve to go looking for something ( _someone_ ) to scratch it. Matilda’s is an out of the way bar, known for harboring the seedier element without the trouble that usually follows that sort of lifestyle around. Not that there’ s much trouble to be found in Gotham these days, but Matilda’s is off John’s beat and he’s never been there as a cop. When he feels the need to slut around, that’s where he goes.

And slutting around is exactly what John’s doing. He always feels vaguely ridiculous when he comes out, dressed in clothes that leave nothing, especially his intentions, to the imagination. Tonight it’s a grey, worn t-shirt that’s one size too small, and black jeans tight enough to perfectly outline the curve of his ass and the bulge of his cock which has been half hard since he walked in the door. 

He’s drawing attention, and yeah, John knows that’s what he wants – to grab someone’s eye, get them to fuck this stupid itch out of his system so he can go back to pretending to be normal for a few weeks – but it still makes him nervous and unsettled. He needs alcohol, copious amounts of alcohol.

John is on his second glass of whiskey when a hush falls over the bar. He turns and sees a group of bikers come in. That in itself is normal enough – it’s a _biker bar_ , after all – but the nervous energy that fills the room at their arrival isn’t. Neither is the way that nobody seems to be actually looking at the dozen or so newcomers. Everyone’s eyes are pointedly averted, body language screaming ‘ _I am minding my own business, I have no interest in yours_ ’. Everyone, that is, except John.

 _John_ is staring in rapt attention, because the man that just walked in at the front of the pack is so fucking spot on his type it’s like his cock dreamed him up, sketched him out, then drew little hearts all around the picture. Does that make sense? Probably not. Most likely because all the blood that should be fueling John’s brain and helping him work out appropriate metaphors (similes?) is currently pooled in his groin. You know, in the aching fucking erection that the mere sight of this guy is able to provoke.

Oh, God, John is in so much trouble. 

The man is huge, and John isn’t using hyperbole here. He’s built like a Mack Truck, taller than John by several inches, and broad. _Fuck_ , he’s broad, and solid in a way that has John’s fingers twitching with the urge to get underneath that jacket, map out those shoulders and find out if it really is all hard muscle like it appears.

His face is covered by a motorcycle hood, and though John can only make out his eyes, he’s startled by the depth of intelligence he sees when the man’s gaze sweeps the room, lingering on John for a moment before moving on. John isn’t used to smart thugs. Not to be blunt, but he doesn’t really chase after this type of guy for their brains. It doesn’t do anything to dampen his arousal, though. In fact, if the way he squirms on the barstool is any indication, it does quite the opposite.

The bartender and owner, the eponymous Matilda, is near enough that John is able to catch her attention. He tilts his head in the direction of the masked man and his band of followers who, he sees, have taken over the three tables at the back, uprooting some of the regulars who move away without a word of protest. 

“Who is that?” John whispers, the near quiet of the bar – much more muted than before – necessitating it. Matilda looks up reflexively, her eyes darting away once she’s certain who John is talking about. She frowns deeply and John is surprised to see that she doesn’t approve. He’s never seen Matilda be anything but welcoming toward any of her guests before. Gruff sometimes, sure, but the sort of gruffness that speaks of age and experience rather than dislike.

“That’s Bane. You leave him alone, kid. He’s the sort of trouble you don’t walk away from,” she mutters, looking for a moment like she’s about to say more when a man at the end of the counter calls Matilda away, and John is left mulling over her words.

He’s not stupid, okay? Yeah, John has a bad boy fetish, and the word ‘trouble’ pushes every single one of his buttons, but John can already tell, just by the little he’s seen, that getting mixed up in Bane’s world, even for a just a night, won’t be the kind of experience he can wash away in the shower and forget when the bruises fade. John has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need that in his life.

Damn if that’s doing anything to stop John from wanting it.

He only realizes that he’s staring at Bane again when the two members of his gang that are seated nearest stand and come towards him. John flushes in embarrassment but doesn’t shy away, forcing a smile onto his face when the two men stop in front of him. “Can I help you gentlemen?” John asks, his nervousness dissolving into his oldest and best loved defense mechanism – cocky self-assurance. 

The lackeys don’t bat an eye. “The boss wants to see you,” Righty says, gesturing back at the table. John looks between the two of them, their body language speaking the rest of the sentence as clearly as if they’d shouted it. _If you don’t come along, we’re here to make you_.

John recognizes the fact that, when he goes out on these little self-serving sex missions, he’s on his own. Nobody knows his name here and none of his friends have any idea that he even knows about this place, let alone makes regular visits. If something were to happen, John would have to fend for himself. Seven against one aren’t good odds to begin with, but given that Bane probably counts as three men just by himself, John knows it’s probably in his best interest to avoid a fight.

He comes along quietly, flanked by Righty and Lefty, until he’s shoved down into the chair Lefty just vacated – the one directly across from Bane.

The biker’s gaze is dark and calculating, and he stares at John for several long moments. It’s like being taken apart. Maybe it’s stupid, but John feels like those eye are looking at his every flaw and uncovering each and every secret he’s hiding. Finally, just when John is starting to squirm, Bane speaks.

“Tell me why you have been staring at us.”

And oh God, that…that isn’t fair. No one’s voice should be allowed to sound like that. The answer John has prepared dries up in his mouth and the only thing he can think to say is ‘ _because I’d like to get down on my knees and rub my face against your cock_ ’. Wow, okay, no. That’s probably not the right answer here.

“I just, uh. I’ve never seen you around here. Just some harmless curiosity. That’s all.” It’s weak, at best, and John knows Bane’s seen through the lie when he nods to the goons and suddenly John is slammed face down on the table. He kicks out – there’s not much else he can do with his hands pinned down – but it’s useless. Righty keeps him immobile while Lefty searches him and – _shit_.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Taking his badge along with him on these little outings had always seemed like a good idea. 

Lefty’s hand closes around the oblong shape, pulling it out and handing it to Bane without a word. John is released and allowed to sit back, but Righty’s hand remains on his shoulder, a reminder of what will happen if John tries to run. Bane inspects the badge, turning it over in his hands, and runs his thumb over the embossed metal. He sets it aside and picks up John’s wallet, flipping it open and staring at John’s ID before putting that aside as well. To John’s surprise, he gestures to the six other men around the table, and without argument, they get up and leave

“It’s time for the truth now, John Blake, Gotham City Police Department. Why are you here?” Bane’s voice remains steady and pleasant, as though they are having a friendly conversation. John finds that he wants to hear more of that strange accent, wants to hear it deeper, and rougher, whispering filth into his ear. 

_No, stop it, focus._

John frowns and glances at the badge in front of Bane. “I know what it looks like, but it’s not. I’m not – I don’t come here as a cop,” He lets the fake geniality drop from his voice as he speaks, meeting Bane’s eyes unflinchingly. “I don’t know anything about you and your group and frankly, tonight, I don’t give a shit. You do what you came here to do and I’ll do what I came here to do. Fair enough?”

It’s impossible to tell with the majority of Bane’s face covered by the motorcycle hood, but John could swear the biker is smiling. No, not a smile. A smirk – predatory and knowing. 

“And what is it you seek tonight, Officer Blake? Liquor? Anonymity? A woman? Or perhaps something else.” Bane’s hand turns then, and it takes John a moment to realize what’s resting in his palm – a condom and packet of lube. _John’s_ condom and packet of lube. Fuck. He hadn’t even realized they were gone. But of course they were. Bane’s henchmen hadn’t left a single of John’s pockets unturned. 

He flushes, unreasonably embarrassed, and is about to just say fuck it all and leave when Bane leans forward. His long arm stretches out over the table and he slides a hand around the back of John’s neck, making him bend awkwardly. John is pulled close, only his hands braced on the Formica preventing their foreheads from touching. From this angle, John can see that the motorcycle hood Bane is wearing is stretched out over something beneath. More biker gear? Some sort of mask? John doesn’t have long to wonder, because the next thing Bane says kicks any reason he has right out on its ass.

“You will go into the alley,” Bane purrs, his voice dropping into a lower register, like velvet scraped over cement. His voice is distorted, almost metallic, and each word feels like a finger sliding down John’s cock. “Once you are there, you must make a choice. If you run, you will be allowed to leave and no harm will come to you. If you stay – ,” Bane pauses, flexing and using his immense strength to pull John that little bit closer until his damp forehead is pressing into the material of the hood, the rigid shape beneath digging into his skin.

“If you stay, you will be mine for the rest of this evening.”

All at once, John is released and Bane settles back into his chair, fingers hooking into the zippered pockets on his chest. Dumbly, John realizes Bane doesn’t have a drink. _Of course he doesn’t_ , his brain supplies as it struggles to catch up to the turn in event, _he’s wearing that hood_.

Bane nods toward the side door that John knows leads to the alley. John stands without even thinking about it, his mind currently being led by lust rather than logic. As he’s about to walk out, he glances back, wanting to confirm that Bane hasn’t up and disappeared like some sort of sex hallucination. The man is staring at him unwaveringly – a hawk tracking prey. 

“One minute, Officer Blake,” Bane growls, his voice pitched loud enough for John to hear over the bar. “Decide quickly.” 

***

_60…59…58…_

The count runs in John’s head like background noise as he paces in the alley, trying to drown out the cognitive dissonance currently ricocheting around his brain. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should leave, go home, call up a sex line, masturbate furiously, and go to sleep. Or fuck, if he’s really this desperate for a cock up his ass, then John is sure he can find someone else before the night is over. There are other bars, other men who can loom over him, other men who will-who will…

_Who will back down when you tell them to._

_Who don’t push you because all they want is a tight hole to fuck and you’re accommodating enough about that so they’ll take it on your terms._

_Who don’t understand that when you shrug off their grip or twist away, you want them to put you back in your place and keep you there while they finish what they started._

Fuck.

_37…36…35…_

Time is running out and John hasn’t started running. He’s not going to, either. Pretending there was even a choice here was just John’s way of ignoring the fact that he threw his common sense and dignity out the window the moment Bane walked into the bar.

_21…20…19…_

John keeps his eyes on the side door as the rest of the count flicks through his head. When sixty seconds have come and gone and the door hasn’t opened, a barb of doubt hooks into John’s gut, scratching away at the resolve keeping him rooted to the spot. After ninety seconds, John starts to picture Bane at the table, holding court with his gang and crowing about the slut cop who had all but crawled into the alley on his belly, that desperate to be used by a real man.

The bitter taste of humiliation fills John’s mouth as the seconds continue to tick by. This is a mistake. He’s such an idiot. 

But, he’s an idiot who stays right where he is. After several more moments ( _360 seconds total, John counted every single one_ ) the battered aluminum door opens and out steps Bane as casually as if he were just coming out for a smoke, not to fuck some stranger.

Bane doesn’t look at all apologetic about the wait and suddenly John knows that he’s been played. The delay was a test and John…Christ. John must have passed with flying fucking colors. He waited out here for six minutes. Like a faithful dog. . It’s a reminder of who holds the cards here. Bane kept him waiting and John didn’t even fidget. Any leverage John thought he might have had in this situation vanishes, leaving him off balance and annoyed. 

“What a patient young man you are, Officer Blake. A fine quality for a public servant,” Bane says, no hesitation as he advances. John bristles, because fuck him. John is an officer of the law and Bane is just some low rent biker thug. John isn’t going to be mocked in an alley like some sort of cheap hooker. The anger must show on his face because, well, John isn’t making any attempt at hiding it.

“Oh, you are angry now.” Bane sounds amused, and he’s so close that John has to step back or else the biker will walk right into him. “Did you not appreciate the extra time I allowed you to think?” 

“Fuck you,” John bites out, feeling stupid for rising to the bait but unable to do anything else. He continues to retreat, until he has nowhere else to go and his back is against the wall. “I could have left. You’d be laughing your ass off then, huh?”

Bane cocks his head, considering. “But you didn’t leave. And I’ve already told you what that means.”

Suddenly, Bane is on him, the solid weight of his muscled bound body pressing John into the wall so hard that he can feel the indent of the bricks on his back. John can’t move, and every attempt is met with greater force, until John is squirming but not going anywhere, his cock rubbing maddeningly against the seam of his jeans. Fuck, he’s so hard. He wants Bane’s hands on him, but both of the larger man’s hands are currently on either side of John’s head, boxing him in.

John’s breath goes short when Bane leans in, and he’s momentarily shocked by how absolutely beautiful the biker’s eyes are. Blue-grey with long lashes, surprisingly almost delicate, especially compared to the rest of him. There’s suddenly nothing more that John wants than to see the rest of Bane’s face. He gets a hand up and touches the hood, a finger slipping under the gap at the neck and making to pull it up. 

Quick as a startled snake, Bane has his hands in a vice like hold and has spun him around, John’s face now scraping against the red, gritty brickwork. He yelps, trying to rear back, but there’s nowhere to go. Bane has him just as securely pinned as before, flush along his back with his chin digging pointedly into John’s shoulder. 

“Do you need to be reminded of your place, Office Blake?” Bane growls against his ear, rubbing the slick material of the hood down his neck. “You have not earned the right to see my face. But perhaps you’d like to.” John can feel Bane’s muscles flex, and suddenly he’s been lifted, his skin rubbing painfully as he’s dragged up the wall. He kicks out, but there’s no traction, the tips of his sneakers barely grazing the ground. “Is that what you want, Blake? Do you want to be good for me?”

It was so close to what John wants to hear, but he jerks his head in denial, panting wetly against the wall as he tries to find the words. He doesn’t…he can be good. He can be good so easily but that’s not what he wants. For once, John wants his best behavior to be something taken rather than something he gives.

“Make,” he gasps, wetting his lips shakily before trying again. “Make me be good. Want that. Want you to make me.”

The growl Bane makes then sounds approving, but John can’t be sure. He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, because the wall is suddenly gone and for a dizzying second John is suspended in mid-air, held up by nothing more than the biker’s raw strength. That second is all it lasts, though, and John then finds himself dropped, knees landing with a hard smack on the damp pavement. John groans in pain and places a hand on the wall to steady himself, but Bane deliberately twists his arms behind him again, wrists crossed at the small of his back. 

John only starts to struggle when he feels a cord begin to bind him.

“Hey!” He hisses, trying to turn around and shake Bane off, but one shove has his back arched in painfully, shoulders immobile, and John left unable to do more than turn his head to the side. He glares at a nearby dumpster, twisting his hands in Bane’s grip as though that will slow the man down at all. It doesn’t, and when Bane steps back a moment later, John is tied, wrists to ankles. 

“Untie me,” John forces as much authority into his voice as possible, “I didn’t agree to this. Untie me right now.” It’s not like John has never done bondage before – he’s a curious guy, after all – but this does not resemble the playful ( _boring_ ) night he’d spent with his hands tied to the bedpost by two of his neckties. This isn’t his ex who thought that walking around downtown after 6:00 PM was the height of danger. The man behind him now is probably some sort of actual criminal. He could beat John to death with nothing more than his fists and enough time, and John’s only advantage in this situation had been his speed. 

Kind of hard to run when you’re trussed up like a prized pig.

 _This is what you wanted._ flicks across John’s thoughts, and he scowls, because it’s not. Well, yes, okay, it is, but not like this. Not where John actually has to trust the thug who’s going to rail him. Not when there’s absolutely no way for him to fight back.

John has never been so hard in his life. 

There’s pressure, suddenly, on the rope strung between his hands and feet and John feels his shoulders pulled down by the force of it. He grunts at the strain, the blood in his traitor cock throbbing insistently. 

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear, before,” Bane’s says pleasantly from above him, at the same time pressing his boot down harder and shocking a yelp out of John as his arms are pulled impossibly back. “In this alley, you belong to me. You will be used for my pleasure, in whichever way I choose. You may leave when I’ve had my fill of you. Do you understand?” John’s arms are yanked back even further and _Christ_ they’re going to get _dislocated_. “Answer me, Officer Blake.”

“Yes! Fuck, yes, I understand, I’m yours okay, I understand!”

“Good. We can begin, then.” Bane steps back and John jerks his shoulders forward, nearly overbalancing for a moment before he steadies, panting as the pain slowly fades. “Turn around.”

This asshole has got to be fucking kidding him. The binds he put him in make movement extremely awkward, if not impossible. But the pain is still loud in his memory, and his utter vulnerability present enough in his mind to keep the angry refusal at bay. Slowly, John starts to move, shuffling ungracefully and trying to get any sort of leverage without falling on his face.

He finally manages it, breathing fast and shallow from the effort when he stops moving, knees smarting from the bits of gravel he’s just dug into them. John looks up and Bane is right there, or rather, his groin is right there and _fuck_. John’s suddenly panting for a whole different reason because as casual as the biker had sounded when he’d been ordering him around, John can see the truth. Bane is hard. The dark denim of his jeans is stretched obscenely over the rigid curve of his erection, and Christ but he’s big. He knows he’s staring, and when he feels a leather covered hand at the base of his chin, he resists looking up. If Bane sees his face right now, he’ll see how absolutely, ravenously hungry John is for that cock in his mouth, and John has already lost enough power to the other man. 

Once again, though, what John wants doesn’t matter, and when the pressure grows more insistent he lets that hand tip his chin up, meeting Bane’s eyes. Whatever the man sees there must please him, because he strokes a thumb gently down his cheek. “You will keep your eyes on me,” he says. John nods in understanding.

Bane wastes no time. With one flick of his wrist, his fly is open, and he wraps a glove covered hand around his cock, drawing it the rest of the way out of his pants. John’s eyes widen as he takes it all in. His first impression was wrong. Bane isn’t big. He’s fucking donkey-dick huge. His cock is blood heavy, thick, and uncut. The foreskin is slightly pulled back, sitting snugly under the glans, and John watches as a drop of pre-come beads at the tip. The only things that keeps John from scrambling forward and licking it off are Bane’s hand holding him still, and the tattered remains of John’s pride.

One step is all it takes for Bane to close the distance between them, the wet head of his cock rubbing back and forth over John’s bottom lip, leaving them salty-slick and shining. Each time John’s tongue darts out, trying to get a taste from the source, Bane moves back out of reach. 

Finally, when John is just starting to ride the edge of desperation, Bane taps a finger against his mouth. “Open,” he growls thickly, and John almost dislocates his jaw with how fast he obeys, mouth obscenely wide, tongue sticking out slightly past his bottom lip in invitation. 

Bane lets his cock rest just barely inside of John’s mouth, unmoving for the moment and John knows he’s being tested. It’s agony to stay still, to not screw his mouth down the biker’s length as far as he can get, but John knows that if he moves, they’ll go back to square one until he can obey Bane’s unspoken order like a good little pet.

John’s shivering now, so ratcheted up with lust that it feels like its possessing him. Bane’s expression remains steady, looking at John impassively, and God, he’s going to keep him here forever and John _can’t_ he fucking _can’t_. The sound that comes out of him then is desperate, and pathetic, and so filled with want that it embarrasses John to the core. It must be what Bane was waiting for, though, because it’s barely out of his mouth before the biker replaces it with his dick, the saliva that’s been pooling under John’s tongue dripping out past the corners of John’s lips as Bane thrusts in.

It’s good. So fucking good John can hardly stand it. Bane tastes like sweat and musk and leather and salt, the flavor strong, but pleasant, and John leans forward, looking for more. Soon enough, Bane’s cock bumps up against the back of his throat and John starts to angle his head away, because he doesn’t do that, _can’t_ do that. He always chokes and it hurts and Bane doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that because he wraps a firm hand around the back of John’s head and pushes forward regardless.

John fights, trying to twist his head to the side, but Bane nips that action in the bud, holding John’s head between his massive hands, moving him, tilting his head up, and then down and _fuck_ -

Bane slips down his throat like he was made to be there, and John does choke, a horrible, retching sound pushing past the cock in his mouth. The biker doesn’t care. He draws it out, fucking as deep as he can get and holding there before pulling back and free only to return a moment later, apparently happy to pretend that the human gag reflex is some sort of myth. 

Each push in draws that wet, choking noise out of him, and John’s eyes are glazed, barely even seeing Bane anymore, barely even noticing anything past the staggering pleasure. He’s never been pushed like this, owned like this, and every time Bane thrusts back in, giving John no choice but to accommodate him, John’s own hips twitch forward, fucking the air like he’ll find any relief there. It seems to last hours and days. It’s over far too soon.

Without giving John even a moment to adjust, Bane steps back, his cock coming free with an obscene pop. Unthinkingly, John tries to follow it, leaning forward and doing his damndest to get his mouth back around that firm flesh. He’s forgotten about his hands, though, and that simple motion unbalances him. He can’t bring his arms up to protect his face and John braces for the impact and the broken nose that’s sure to follow, but his fall is stopped by Bane’s hand in his hair, yanking him ungently back and allowing him to settle his balance before letting go. 

“My, my, Officer Blake. That desperate already?” Bane says, dark arousal threading through his voice, and there’s no way John can deny that tone or those words. He nods, still sucking in breath like he’s just run four miles. 

“Wh-y” John coughs again, voice gravel rough and fucked out, “Why’d you stop? You didn’t have to, I can do it. Please.”

He’s begging. He should feel ashamed, but he’s too focused on getting Bane’s dick back in him to care.

Bane chuckles, fingers sliding affectionately through John’s hair. “I give nothing away for free, my young friend. You must earn your pleasure here.” _And you haven’t earned that._ hangs in the air unsaid. John’s so hard, so frustrated he could cry. He wants to rage at Bane, order him to ram himself back down John’s throat, but looming larger than any of that, is the need to please the biker.

John wants to be good.

Licking his lips, John considers Bane’s words and hesitantly looks up to meet his eyes once more. “How?” He asks, not bothering to hide any of the need in his voice. “How do I earn it? Just tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever you want, just, God, _please_.” It’s a dangerous promise to make, but either John can’t think past the pleasure or he doesn’t want to. 

“There you go, Officer,” Bane replies, voice heavy in approval as his hand drifts from John’s hair to the back of his neck, fisting in his shirt. “Now you are asking the correct questions.”

John’s stomach feels like it’s twisted in on itself as he’s yanked up, Bane hefting him off the asphalt with one hand. He’s only in the air for a moment before something hard is digging into his stomach and he’s sees he’s been thrown over the seat of a motorcycle parked next to them. It’s only Bane’s hand pinning him down that stops John from falling ass over ankles onto the ground. John is just about to voice how this position is absolutely not going to work, when he hears the snick of a knife and his legs fall, feet slamming down to steady him on the ground, the cord tying them cleanly separated from his still bound hands. 

Bane moves so fast that it’s hard to keep up, and all John can do is hold on as he reaches under and unbuttons John’s pants, jerking them open so hard that John suspects he’s popped the zipper. John doesn’t give a shit, though, because there’s finally _friction_ on his poor, neglected cock. It’s only a series of light, accidental touches from Bane’s attempts to get John’s pants down, but they have John keening and jerking forward for more. 

“Please,” he pants, any dignity he had long gone, “please, please, please, touch, fuck, touch me _please_ -“A sharp slap to the round of John’s now bare ass stops his chanting.

“Now, now, none of that. Be patient,” Bane says firmly, and John fucking _sobs_ because he can’t. He needs to come now. 

Dimly, John hears the muffled sound of plastic ripping, and all of a sudden there are two slick fingers twisting inside of him-two fingers that slide a little smoother than normal because _fuck_. Bane is still wearing his leather gloves. It’s too much, too fast, and John gasps, surging forward, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s pulled back by his shirt, the fingers screwing in deeper．It's overwhelming, almost too intense to handle, and though John squirms pathetically, the biker refuses to give him any quarter. Bane knows what he's doing, though, and each maddening stroke has John shuddering and, after several deep breaths, relaxing into the sensations.

The burn is amazing - deep and hot - definitely on the wrong side of painful, but just barely. John clenches down to feel those thick, long ( _Oh God, still leather bound_ ) fingers inside of him, stretching him open. John wants more. He tilts his hips back and focuses on letting his muscles release, trying to show Bane that's he's ready, that he can take it without a careful warmup. That he wants to be split open on Bane's cock.

John jerks when Bane finds his prostate, his own cock slapping up against his belly, leaving a wet kiss of pre-come on his stomach. “God, please, again,” he groans, arching his back and widening his stance as far as the cord will let him. This time, Bane lets him beg, mercilessly stroking up against that spot inside John as he does. The pain of a third finger being pushed inside of him is muted, overshadowed almost completely by the mind numbing, blood boiling pleasure. 

“Is this what you were after tonight, Officer Blake?” Bane’s voice is animal like as he snarls filthily into John’s ear. “Is that sick little need inside of you being sated? Or do you need more?”

“More,” John replies instantly, fucking his ass back onto the fingers inside of him, “yes, I need more. Anything. I said, I told you, please anything, just more. Fuck me,” and suddenly that’s all John can think about. “Yes, need that. Please, get your dick in me. Put it-yes, fuck please, put it in me.”

There’s that laugh again, and oh God, John has never found a sound so terrifying and tempting at the same time. “What did I tell you about earning your pleasure?” He says and John nearly screams when Bane wraps a hand around his cock, the sensation shocking and almost painful after so much denial. A second after, those fingers press deep and hard into John’s prostate and this time he does scream, shoved to the edge and only just keeping from tipping over it. “I can’t,” John gasps, barely able to form words, “I have to, I can’t, please let me, please Bane, let me come.”

Bane’s hips move, thrusting his cock up against the back of John’s thigh and he growls, stroking John faster. The word he spits out is unintelligible, but John can guess at the meaning. Two more strokes of Bane’s hand and he’s there, a high, pained sound wrenching out of him as he paints the bike under him with his come. 

The world goes fuzzy, and John drifts for moment after moment, making little to no effort to come back to himself. It’s only when he hears the unmistakable sound on flesh against flesh does he rouse, the harsh panting of Bane’s breath drifting in next. John realizes what’s happening only a second before he feels the hot splash of semen against his skin, landing thickly on his ass and thighs. John shudders, his cock giving a valiant twitch, one last spurt of come leaking out. 

His hands and feet as suddenly free, and the last of John’s strength abandons him. He slides slowly down from the bike, kneeling on the ground with his forehead pressed against the seat. The next thing he knows, fingers are tracing unfamiliar patterns across his bare body, and John’s brain is so slow that several seconds go by before he gets it. Bane’s rubbing his come into John’s skin. Like a brand. 

Once he’s apparently satisfied, John’s jeans are hitched back up and buttoned. John makes no move to help or hinder, letting Bane move him around until he’s dressed, still leaning against the motorcycle for support.

There’s no sound after that, and John is just starting to think that Bane has left ( _and the sharp stab of disappointment that follows that thought is strange and uncomfortable_ ) when Bane breaks the silence.

“You will come back tomorrow evening with my seed still on your body. If you wash, or if I have to come and collect you, there will be consequences.”

John blinks, and slowly turns around to look at the other man, see if he’s actually goddamn serious, but by the time his exhausted body manages the motion, Bane is gone. As though Bane's scrutiny were the only thing keeping him in place, John sits back, letting his legs sprawl out and taking stock. 

The back of his too tight jeans stick to his ass, glued there by Bane's come. It’s disgusting, and filthy, and John badly wants a shower. He's not going to take one, though, because he wants another round with Bane more. He wants the chance to earn the biker's cock fucking into him. If putting up with a little dried spunk is what it takes, then fine. John's game.

That doesn't mean the next twenty four hours were going to be any less uncomfortable. John grimaces and shifts. Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake returns for round two.

Wearing Bane’s come for the next twenty four hours is both easier, and harder than John had imagined.

It’s easier in that, once it dries, it’s just sort of – flaky. Itchy, a little. An annoyance that pulls at the back of his mind whenever he shifts in his chair or gets up to walk around. It doesn’t even really smell. John had been expecting looks, wrinkled noses, maybe an embarrassing moment while changing into his uniform in the locker rooms, but hiding the crusty mess turns out to be a piece of cake.

It’s his erection that’s the problem.

If someone had asked him a few days ago if walking around the precinct with day old semen crusted in the hair on his ass was hot, John thinks he would have given a pretty emphatic no. And then maybe sprinted in the other direction. But each time he feels the stiff pull against his skin, his dick springs up like a cocker spaniel eager for a treat.

God, John really needs to work on coming up with better metaphors when he’s aroused. This is getting ridiculous.

It’s just the sense memory of it all, really. Each time his ass itches, he’s reminded of Bane pressed up close against him, or the weight of his cock in his mouth, or how it’d felt to choke with zero reassurance that he’d ever breathe again. It’s awful, and Pavlovian, and the day can’t go by nearly fast enough.

John finds excuse after excuse to carry large binders around with him whenever he gets up from his desk, intensely grateful that today’s the day he’d set aside to catch up on paperwork. There’s no way that he could have spent the day in a cramped squad car next to his partner with a stiffy without it being noticed.

Thankfully, the workday ends without anyone getting an eyeful of the tent John is pitching, and he flees to the locker room, changes, and gets out of there in record time. Once he’s in his car, though, John finds himself at a loss. He could head home, it’s what he’d do on any other day. Going home means waiting, though, waiting and trying not to jerk off or lose his nerve and shower. And without the distraction of work, John knows he’ll cave.

He doesn’t _plan_ to drive to the bar, doesn’t mean to show up hours early for a back alley fuck, but there he is – sitting at the table furthest from the door (though the distance isn’t doing anything to stop Matilda from glaring daggers at him (she’s apparently not a big fan of people ignoring her advice) and putting back scotch and sodas at a steady rate. A much too steady rate.

By the time eight o’clock rolls around, he’s past drunk and well on his way to blitzed. Bane still hasn’t shown up.

John isn’t often a maudlin drunk, but apparently scotch mixed with bone crushing arousal brings out the self-pity. He just…can’t believe he’s here. Any of it. That he’s apparently this much of a cockslut, that he’s throwing his pride out the window for this guy he’s met once. And yeah, sure, the guy gave him one of the best orgasms of his life, but is that worth walking around all day marked by this glorified thug? This glorified thug who doesn’t even have the decency to fucking show up for round two?

No. No, John is not that desperate. Swaying, he gets to his feet, proud that it only takes him two tries to achieve lift off, and staggers off to the side door. It just so happens to be in the same direction as he’s currently facing, which, considering that John isn’t sure how well he’d manage actually turning around, seems the safer bet. _Besides_ , John thinks, _maybe…maybe Bane is waiting out there._

Thankfully, the alcohol dulls out the surge of ‘ _oh shit I am so fucking pathetic_ ’ that surfaces at that thought, and John slams open the door and stumbles into the alley.

No bike. No Bane.

The disappointment isn’t a surprise, though the urge to vomit is. To be fair, John thinks that last bit should be chalked up to the fact that he’s somehow replaced 9/10ths of the liquid in his body with hard liquor. The nausea isn’t the only issue, either. The spinning and swaying gets worse.

John leans against the wall as he shuffles toward the entrance of the alley. He makes it about five steps before he has to stop. Honestly, on top of everything else, John is a little embarrassed with himself. He doesn’t usually have any problem holding his liquor. Of course, he hasn’t been quite this drunk in a long, long time. No fucking surprise why, either. He feels awful.

 _‘Maybe,’_ John thinks, propping himself up against the cool brick, _‘if I just sit down for a little bit…not long, just enough for my stomach to settle. Just enough to be able to fucking walk…’_

And apparently John’s body makes the choices the moment the thought pops up, because he’s sitting with his back to the wall before it finishes working its way through his mind.

It’s a stupid, disgusting place to fall asleep, but that doesn’t stop him.

***

He’s still drunk when he wakes up, and John has a brief moment to be thankful that the truly spectacular hangover he’s due for hasn’t arrived yet, before he realizes that he’s not in the alley anymore. He’s not in the bar, either. In fact, John isn’t anywhere that he recognizes.

There are noises off in the distance, loud voices and laughter and John is so distracted by trying to figure out what’s being said that he doesn’t realize he’s not alone until he’s shoved up from the bed and sees the hulking outline in the shadow of the door.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” John gasps in shock, hand automatically going to his belt where his gun is holstered on his uniform. But of course, he’s in his civvies – no weapons. And drunk off his ass. Shit.

“I can assure you, I am not. I see you’ve awakened from your stupor,” an all too familiar voice responds, and John relaxes (which, what the hell? Just because it’s Bane shouldn’t make this situation any better. It shouldn’t).

“You want to tell me what the hell I’m doing here? I was just fine in the alley,” John mutters, words slurring slightly on the sibilants.

“I did tell you, Officer Blake. If you failed to present yourself, you would be collected. Though, I must admit, finding you was much easier than I had anticipated.” There’s humor in Bane’s voice as he walks over, not stopping until he is standing directly in front of John all….looming. Yeah, that’s the word. He’s looming over John like a wet-nightmare-dream and John’s alcohol sloshed brain tries to keep up.

“I-collected? You, you were the one. You were the one. I waited for hours and you didn’t show, so I left. It’s not my fucking fault you can’t keep an appointment.” Quick as a snake (or maybe not, John’s brain is running at a mule’s pace, fucking everything seems abnormally fast to him right now) Bane is pulling him up by a hand in his hair.

He only lifts John about halfway off the bed, tilting his body back in a way that leaves his knees half bent and his spine arched, completely off balance. “Do you imagine that I wait on your schedule? No. You are my distraction. You serve at my pleasure.” Bane almost purrs the last word, not even bothering to mask the double entendre.

And John, drunk on more than booze now, pulls against that grip and snarls into Bane’s masked face, “Just ‘cause I let you fuck my mouth, doesn’t make me your bitch.”

“No?” Bane takes a step closer, holding John against him with barely any effort. The angle has John’s groin in line with the upper part of Bane’s thigh, and while John thought he might be beyond shame at this point, he isn’t. That still doesn’t stop him from trying to fuck his way through Bane’s leg.

“Ah, yes. I understand now. You are a man of great pride,” Bane says, the sarcasm heavy as he pushes the back of John’s knees against the bed. “Let us see what it takes to rid you of it.”

John’s on his back on the bed a second later, Bane looming over him. All John can see of Bane’s face are his eyes, and those only barely. “Take this stupid thing off,” John demands reaching up to grab a handful of the motorcycle hood, only to end on a hiss when Bane grabs his wrist and _wrenches_ it back.

“Touch again without permission and I will bind you. Do you understand?” There’s no arguing with Bane’s tone, or his unyielding grip. The pain laces up his arm, throbbing in time with his dick.

John licks his lips, nods, and arches his hips, grinding his erection against Bane. There’s a burst of relief when he finds him just as hard, and John masks it with a downright insolent grin. “This count?”

“You are rebellious this evening.” And John is seriously going to get whiplash from the way Bane shoves him around, flipping him effortlessly onto his front with no more warning than any other time he’s manhandled John. His hands run the length of John’s back, from shoulders down to his ass, pausing when a brush over his back pocket produces an unexpected crinkle. _Fuck_. The condom and lube packets. He barely remembers taking them from his glove compartment, he’s so drunk and it seems so long ago. Two thick fingers fish the foil wrappers out, cellophane protesting as they’re turned over and over in Bane’s hand.  “And presumptuous. Let’s see if you’ve earned this, shall we?”

Maybe it’s nothing, maybe Bane is just distracted, but the way he yanks at John’s pants, seemingly forgetting he needs to actually unzip them to get them off hints that John isn’t the only one affected by what’s happening. Bane growls in frustration, and that sound has John scrambling to get his knees underneath him and his jeans shoved down.

The flakes of come pull and catch as Bane runs the flat over his palm over John’s ass, fingernails idling and picking bits and pieces away, almost contemplatively. The only other reaction John can catch is the slight pick up in Bane’s already labored breathing.

“So, you _can_ follow directions,” and even though the words are mocking, the tone isn’t. Bane continues to pet and play with the leftover evidence of their last encounter in the alley. Then his hands are gone. John has only just started to turn his head to check when Bane grips him by the hair.

“Face forward. Turn around and I will fuck you using only the slick on the condom, send you home limping, and wash my hands of you,” the ice in Bane’s tone makes it clear that this isn’t an idle threat, and fuck, John isn’t sure which part of that promise bothers him the most.

“In fact,” Bane continues with a firm push to the back of John’s head, “keep your forehead on the mattress. I do not need to see your face for this.”

John swears into the mattress. There’s no real heat behind the words, and John mostly does it to keep from panting like a bitch in heat. He’s so focused on his stream of filth that he barely notices the fabric rustling behind him until Bane drapes himself over John’s back. It’s electric, the feeling of skin against skin after so much anticipation. And then there are lips on his neck.

The plush, slightly chapped skin, trails over the sensitive curve of John’s throat until they rest right over his pulse point.

Then the teeth come.

“Shit,” John snarls, twisting his head to the side as Bane bites down, in a desperate attempt to give him more room rather than get away. Bane holds on for a moment, sucking hard, John’s blood flooding just under the surface, before moving on.

He works his way in a measured, deliberate line, each bite making John hiss and struggle under the weight of Bane on top of him. There’s no slack, though, not an inch of wriggle room. It’s fucking everything John wants.

“More,” and John’s not talking anymore, he’s _gasping,_ when Bane pulls away and all John can think to do is offer the other side of his neck. “Don’t stop, fucking- want more.”

An almost inhuman growl rips out of Bane and John can’t breathe for a whole new reason as he flattens John into the bed, lips pressed right to his ear. “Shameless,” he purrs. It sounds like praise, like Bane wants to test and push every boundary John has.

God, John wants that, too.

The bites aren’t measured or controlled anymore. They’re _savage_ , and Bane’s fingers are dagger points digging into John skins in an odd counterpoint to his teeth. Bane doesn’t stop at John’s neck, either. The wing of his shoulder, each vertebra in his back, the dip at the small of his back - each one gets a mark, a trail of _Bane_ written over him in tongue and teeth and what are sure to be spectacular bruises in the morning.

Rivulets of sweat are running over John’s skin by the end of it, and he can’t keep from shaking, practically vibrating with the need to arch and thrust back against Bane, but still held nearly immobile by one hand at his hip and another between his shoulder blades.

“ _No_ ,” John yells ( _wails_ ) when Bane lifts his head and takes his mouth away, whittling down his points of contact to only those two hands pressing John down. “No, no, _please_ , you gotta fuck me.” If John could hear himself in his rational mind, he might be embarrassed, but as it is now, the immediate need to get Bane’s cock inside of him trumps any last vestiges of pride he brought into this room.

Bane’s hands disappear for only a moment, and then John’s legs are being spread and shoved forward, John having to fling his hands out in front of himself to keep his face from smacking against the headboard. “Wider,” Bane snarls, and pushes John’s ass down into the bed, forcing his legs out even further until he’s trembling just to keep the position.

It leaves him on display and so fucking...vulnerable. He can feel Bane looking, cataloging every twitch in the muscles of his back, every greedy clench of his hole, and John buries his face deeper into the sheet.

“Get on with it, you fucking sadist, _please_.”

“Demanding,” Bane rumbles, pressing his thumb to the tight, spasming ring of John’s entrance. The thumb is _slick_ , wet with too much lube as it presses inside. “Are you that desperate?” And whatever angry retort John was going to fling back is choked off when Bane’s thumb twists, spreading the lube in a full circle around his rim inside, and then out.

John can’t account for what he does, then. There’s no excuse for how he arches his back and tilts his hips, fucking just...presenting himself.

Bane takes the invitation without comment, the lazy exploration he’d been indulging in abandoned as he starts working his fingers inside of John with purpose now, with intent. He barely has two buried deep before he’s working in a third. John takes it, shuddering and grinding teeth when those blunt finger tips scrape over his prostate. The strain of a _fourth,_ however, makes John squirm and tear at the thin sheets underneath him with something other than pleasure. Even with both the lube from both packets inside of him, dribbling down his legs as Bane thrusts half his hand inside of him, it’s difficult. John will kill Bane if he stops.

It turns out, though, that four fingers are nothing compared to the stretch of Bane’s cock when he starts to work his way in. John can’t keep still then, not even with both of Bane’s hands on his shoulders. He thrashes, each minute thrust that works Bane an inch or so deeper into him punching out a wordless howl.

John doesn’t say stop, though, and Bane simply leans further into him. He shifts his legs until he’s kneeling on John’s calves, effectively pinning from from the top and bottom. There’s no getting away from Bane, then.

Bane fucks him with an almost animalistic ferocity, each snap of his hips driving his cock right to the edge of uncomfortably deep. _Fuck_ , John thinks dizzily, mouth open around staggered groans, one chasing after another, _Feels like he’s in my stomach, god-_ “Shit!” John yelps when Bane buries himself even deeper ( _and fuck, how is that possible?)_ , holding and rolling his hips, sending sparks and shockwaves straight to John’s cock.

“Ask for your release,” Bane says, his voice sounding quiet in comparison to the racket John is making. “Ask me to let you climax.”

There’s a moment of lucid surprise at that. What, did Bane think this was going to be a stretch, an uncrossable line? With John moaning like two dollar hooker, ass in the air and stuffed full of his monster cock?

It’s not. It is so fucking not.

“Yeah, yes, please let me, touch me- let me touch myself fucking, fucking whatever just let me come. Let me come,” John begs, and once it’s out it’s hard to stop. He continues a litany of desperation, not stopping even when Bane shoves off of John’s shoulders and reaches underneath them to wrap a giant hand around John’s dick.

Three strokes. Three _god damn_ strokes and John is going off like a rocket. It feels like every muscle in his body seizes at once, Bane feeling even bigger when his body contracts around him, inner muscles clenching and unclenching as John spills into Bane’s hand. It’s one of the longest orgasms of his fucking _life_ , and John is left rag doll limp afterward.

Distantly, he feels Bane lift him by the hips, and slam against him, chasing after his own release as John’s slack face slides across the bed, unwilling to even try to move. One final, brutal shove, and John can tell it’s over, Bane’s finished, buried as deeply as possible inside John as he pumps his seed into the condom.

John doesn’t - can’t - stick around to find out what happens next. The exertion, bone melting orgasm, and lingering drunk swim over him all at once, and for the second time in one night, John Blake passes out.

***

When he wakes up in the morning, John feels like shit. The hangover isn’t even the worst of it. He’s sore... _everywhere_. His back, neck, and ass throb in tandem as John struggles up from the mattress.

He’s also alone. The house is quiet around him, and as John takes in the room, he doesn’t see a single sign that the biker had ever been there with him.

Except, for a single scrap of white paper resting on the edge of the bed. A scrap of white paper with a date and a time.

And instructions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I was hit with a pretty bad case of writer's block, but it's gone for the moment, so have some porn!

John looks up the address on the scrap of paper when he gets back to his house. Hi computer is old and slow, so it takes a while for the map to load. When the blurry blocks finally click into focus, John sees that it's another bar. A bar in the narrows, to be more precise. 

Police work isn't really the sort of job you do well in without a decent helping of paranoia and John's kicks into high gear when he sees the pin on the map. 

_Why is he suddenly changing the meet-up point?_

It's not like Matilda's is some yuppie bar where Bane would worry about standing out. It's shady, quiet. Exactly the kind of place you go for illicit sex meetings. The narrows was where you went to for stabbing-someone-in-the-fucking-neck _meetings_. John can't think of a single reason that they would need to meet there. 

At least, no reason that John will like. 

He fiddles with the scrap of paper, folding and unfolding it, before finally tucking it into his wallet. He'll figure out the Bane situation later. Right now, he needs to get ready for work. 

*** 

Even though his shower runs late (John spend a couple of minutes openly staring at the mural of mouth shaped bruises dotting his back and ass, craning his head so hard he thinks he pulls something in his neck trying to see them all) he ends up making it to the station right on time. His undershirt and boxers hide the worst of Bane's damage, and he keeps his back to the lockers just in case anyone gets too curious. 

John's thankful, at least, that he's not covered in day old come this time. 

He's knotting his tie and stepping out of the locker room when he runs into – literally – the commissioner. 

“Careful there, rookie,” Gordon says, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him. John steps back, and smiles, a little embarrassed. 

“Sorry, Sir. Guess I never learned how to watch where I'm going.” 

Gordon studies him for a second, head tilting considering. “A little preoccupied?” 

“...you could say that,” John says, hoping like hell his cheeks aren't reddening. If they are, Gordon doesn't mention it. He glances down at the manila folder in his hand and frowns. 

“You and me both, son. Given what happened last night, I'm guessing most of the station is in the same boat.” 

John wonders if he looks as dumbfounded as he feels. He licks his lips and thinks, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned anything in the locker room, but can't recall more than the usual greetings and a little halfhearted shit talking. In fact, now that he's thinking about it, the locker room had been abnormally muted today. In his distraction over Bane, John hadn't really paid it much attention. 

“I was, uh, off duty last night,” John finally says, hoping Gordon will fill him in without John having to outright say that he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. 

Gordon nods and pats his shoulder again, giving him a companionable push as he starts walking down the hall again. John falls into step beside him. 

“Four robberies in Gotham, one each in the Uptown, Granton, Farrow, and the Narrows. All at the same time, all loud and involved. The force was all over the city last night, son.” 

“Did you take anyone in?” John asks, shocked that all this happened without him being aware, and a little disappointed that he hadn't been around to help out. 

Gordon nods, tapping the manila folder in his hands. “Just one. The unlucky Hector Gallego. He got a bullet in the tire and his bike spun out.” 

_Bike?_ John thought, swallowing around the sudden knot in his throat. 

“Pretty dumb, trying to get away on a bicycle,” John tries, laughing weakly. Gordon shakes his head. 

“Motorcycle. We're out of practice, rookie, but I think we could've caught a bunch of perps fleeing the scene on bicycles.” 

“Yeah,” John says, wondering if his voice sounds as strained to Gordon as it does to his own ears. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

*** 

There's a meeting later, to fill the rest of the department in on what happened. John focuses on Captain Singh's words with nearly fanatical attention. 

The first part he knows – the four robberies in different sections of the city, the escape on motorcycles, the one arrest – but everything else is news to him. 

Apparently, Hector Gallego is a member of a small time, Hell's Angels wannabe biker clique. He has a few priors, nothing too colorful, but enough to make this next charge a third strike, if the DA decides to push it that way. Even with the threat of life in prison, though, Hector isn't talking. 

“We're going to continue our questioning, but it's unlikely that Gallego will give us anything,” Singh says, looking slowly around the room at the assembled officers. “He's either protecting his gang, or scared of being labeled a rat.” 

“Or both.” 

John's eyes snap immediately to Gordon. He has the file open and is looking at it instead of the room. He sets it down after a moment and stands up. The captain immediately steps back to give him the floor. 

“I don't think Gallego's gang organized any of these robberies. They don't have the manpower, the weapons, or the resources.” Gordon pauses then, gathering his thoughts, then keeps going. 

“There's someone else behind this. Someone bigger, better connected, and much smarter than Gallego or his gang. Whoever that is is likely still in the city. Keep that in mind on your beats today. Trust your guts out there today, people, and keep your eyes open. I think that's good for now, don't you, captain?” 

John thinks about the small scrap of paper sitting in his wallet. He doesn't think about much else for the rest of the day. 

*** 

The shift is quiet, John and Anthony going almost the whole day without having to get out of the car unexpectedly. It's as though, after the excitement of last night, Gotham's criminals have decided to take a day off. With nothing to distract him, John ends up with plenty of time to think about the Bane problem. 

Their little trysts are over. The good sense that's finally smothered his screaming id makes that clear enough. He's not going to the bar in the Narrows and he'll have to avoid Matilda's from now on, too. None of that is in question. 

No, the question is whether and what to tell Gordon. 

The frustrating thing is that John doesn't have much to go on. He knows Bane is in a biker gang and that people say he's dangerous. He knows that Bane missed an appointment last night at around the same time the robberies happened. He knows that he fucks like an animal and has a dick big enough that John is still feeling the stretch hours later. 

But as for illegal activities? John's got shit all. 

If John tells Gordon his suspicions and gives him the address, Gordon will want to know how he got it. If he leaves it on his desk anonymously, John doesn't know if he'll pay it any attention, and there's always the chance that someone will see him do it, and questions will follow. John's not ashamed that he fucks men, he's long since gotten over any guilt over his sexuality being raised in a Catholic boy's home put in him. Liking dick and fucking a crime kingpin are two different things, though. While he wouldn't be overly bothered if Gordon found out the former, John's no where near ready to admit to the latter. 

He briefly considers trying to _find_ something to pin on Bane, of going to the meeting and seeing if he can't come back with a little more than circumstantial evidence. He dismisses that idea quickly, though. Bane knows he's a cop. The chance of him doing something illegal in front of John, and then letting him live to tell, is pretty nil. 

None of his options are any good, but keeping quiet isn't an option at all. 

_You don't have to figure it out now_ , John tells himself when his shift ends, trying to get dressed while ignoring the ache of his bruises and the memories that that ache brings to the surface. _You've got a little time_. 

He'll take a day to really weigh out his options, he decides, and then he'll act. Any sooner, and it'd just be rash. He already has a reputation as a hot head without needing to add to it. 

When everyone else has left the locker room, and John's the last straggler, he takes the folded paper out of his wallet and looks at it, burning the address into his memory. Then, he shreds it. 

On his way out the door, he dumps the pieces in the trash. 

*** 

He's no closer to an answer that night. John even goes into the bathroom to practice telling Gordon in the mirror, but keeps freezing up whenever he starts explaining where the information is from. There's no point in practicing a lie, either. Gordon has a finely tuned bullshit detector and the only thing worse than fessing up to what happened, would be getting caught lying about it. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, it's almost 7:45, and he's more torn than when he went in. John stares at the alarm clock and sits down, watching minute after minute click by as he berates himself. 

_Gordon should be at the bar arresting Bane about now. He would be if you'd had more of a backbone._

John frowns, shaking his head, because that's not fucking fair. 

_Arrests take warrants, they take time, and they take fucking evidence. So shut the fuck up._

When the clock shows 8:00, John reaches over and turns it around. The little voice in the back of his head pipes up again before he can shove it down. 

_You could be being held down and fucked by now. What a goddamn waste._

Disgusted at himself, John gets up to make some dinner. 

*** 

The later it gets, the harder John finds it to sit still. He eats his dinner – a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch – standing up in the kitchen, and when he sits down to watch some TV, he ends up juddering his leg so hard that he has to get back up and walk around. John knows, rationally, that nothing is going to happen. Bane doesn't know where he lives. All those threats about coming to get John if he missed an appointment was just sex talk. There's nothing to worry about. 

Still, John locks his door. Just in case. 

Even though he doubts he'll be able to lay down for very long, John starts getting ready for bed early. He strips off and gets in the shower, a small shudder of pleasure running through his tense back when the scorching hot water first hits him. He usually showers in the morning, because even a lukewarm shower wakes him up better than a cup of coffee, but he needs something to help unknot his muscles, and the shitty light beer in John's fridge isn't going to do it. 

About twenty minutes in, the water temperature starts dropping, and John shuts off the shower with a small grunt of displeasure. One day he's going to live in a place with its own fucking water tank. One day. 

He towels off, surprised at how loose, and almost _languid_ he feels after the shower. His fears over Bane seem stupid, in retrospect. John grabs his boxers from the bathroom floor, pulls them on, and heads to the kitchen for a bottle of water. 

A hand closes around his throat before he's cleared the doorway. 

John reacts instinctively, twisting in the grip and bringing his elbow up for a blow. He strikes solid flesh, then again, and _again_ , but the hand doesn't let go. In fact, it tightens, and John's head swims as he's given a shake. 

“Good evening, Office Blake. I see you missed our appointment to attend to _very_ important business,” Bane says into his ear, putting his free hand on John's stomach to pull him back. His grip loosens enough that John can gasp out a response. 

“Are you fucking _serious_?” He pants, arching his back and thrashing to get away from Bane. “Are you _fucking serious_?” 

“As the grave, Officer Blake. Let's not pretend that I did not tell you what would happen if you did not show. Twice.” 

John's air goes again and Bane presses forward, walking John to the couch in front of them. John doesn't know what Bane plans to do, but he knows that there's no fucking way he's letting him put him over that couch. 

He half jumps and half kicks out, using Bane as a fulcrum to get enough height. His right foot lands on top of the backrest, and his left just under. He shoves back with all of his strength and it happens fast enough that he catches Bane off guard, sending them both to the ground. 

Bane turns the moment they hit, flipping John onto his front and trying to get on top. John twists underneath him, managing to get onto his back before Bane's over him. He has his riding hood on, but John can sees his eyes and they're wild and crinkled with amusement. John tries to hit him with a right hook, but Bane grabs his hands, grappling until they're pinned to the floor next to John's head. 

“You've never fought as hard as this. Are you afraid, Blake?” 

Bane sounds like John trying not to get murdered or raped is the best thing on the planet. John bares his teeth at him and snarls. 

“If you don't get the fuck off me I'm going to rip your throat out.” 

Bane rests his forehead against John's, speaking quietly, but loud enough to be heard when they're pressed this close together. “So fierce, aren't you? Right up until I put you on your knees. We've already played this game, Blake. We both know how it ends.” 

“Yeah, I know how this fucking ends. You in prison for raping a cop, because that's what's gonna fucking happen if you don't let me up!” John thrashes, and he can feel the panic rising in his chest because Bane is immovable on top of him and John can feel the long, hard length of his cock digging into his thigh, and it's going to hurt, it's going to fucking tear him apart-- 

All at once, Bane is gone, leaning back and looking down at John with a curious expression. John immediately starts trying to get away, and this time, Bane lets him. He backpedals across the carpet until he's pressed against the wall. Bane stares at him, head tilted. 

“I assumed that you did not show in order to provoke a reaction,” he says after a moment. He sounds almost apologetic, but not quite. 

John is still panting, his heart still hammering away in his chest. “That's a big fucking assumption to make,” he says, proud that his voice is thick with anger instead of the fear that still has its hooks in him. 

“Given our past interactions, I thought it was a fair one.” 

Bane keeps looking at him, waiting for something, John doesn't know what. John mostly has his breath back and is feeling more stable, enough to get his feet under him and stand up. “You were wrong. So get the fuck out.” 

Bane's eyes narrow and he stands up as well, body posture mirroring John's own. “You wasted a good deal of my time, Officer Blake. I am owed an explanation.” 

“You want an explanation?” John says, his anger overtaking any of his good sense. “How about you explain where you were last night? Big plans take you to the other side of the city?” 

It takes only two steps for Bane to be in his personal space, his hand cupping the side of John's neck. “I see now. This is your revenge for my lateness last night.” 

John jerks his head to the side, heart crawling up his throat. “What part of fuck off do you not get? We're done here.” 

“Yes, so you've said,” Bane says, his voice a pleased rumble. “I don't think you're being quite honest with yourself.” 

There's a small thud as John's shoulders, then head, hit the wall. Bane's thigh slides between John's own and presses up, and all the blood in John's body suddenly shoots south, pooling in his groin. John's hands go to his shoulders and clench in the fabric, neither pushing away nor pulling close. 

“You don't know what you're talking about,” John says, though it's more of a gasp. He doesn't get a chance to say anything else before Bane's huge hand is rubbing his cock. 

“I think I do, Officer Blake. I think I have a very good idea of what I'm talking about.” 

Bane palms him, stroking the thickening line of his dick through the thin fabric of his boxers. John arches into it, there's no way to stop that, and Bane curls his fingers and squeezes firmly. 

“Tell me yes,” Bane says. John chokes back the words, only a weak groan escaping when Bane's thumb finds the wet head of his cock and traces the ridge of his glans. “Tell me yes, or I stop.” 

John's fists tighten in Bane's shirt, and he yanks him forward, groaning his next words into Bane's riding hood, right over his mouth. 

“Don't you fucking stop.” 

One quick yank, and John's boxers are down, the waistband snapped right below his balls. Bane puts enough distance between their faces to hold his hand up in front of John's mouth. “Spit,” he orders, and John obeys, hawking a mouthful of saliva right into his palm. 

Bane grabs him again, using the moisture to ease his strokes. He starts off hard, tight, but wet enough for it to fall on the right side of pain. John tilts his head back and outright moans, hips twitching into every push down. 

“Yes. This is much more honest, Blake. This is what you wanted tonight, not your pride.” 

“Shut up,” John keens, swallowing thickly when Bane rubs the sensitive spot under the head of his cock. 

“Give me a reason to.” 

John gets his head together enough to get a hand between them, scrabble at Bane's fly, and yank it down. He shoves his hand into the open fly and wraps his fingers around the huge, hard length inside. 

There's no more talking after that. The room is silent except for pants, and groans, and the wet, slick sounds of them bringing each other off. John tries to keep his strokes steady, but with Bane's hand warm and sure and so fucking good around him, it's difficult to keep anything in his mind except for _yes_ and _more._ He manages, though, flicks his wrist faster and tightens his fingers on the upstroke. 

John comes first. It takes him by surprise and he squeezes his eyes shut as his cock jerks, shooting his release onto Bane's wrist. His muscles flutter with the aftershocks, and his hand loosens around Bane's still hard cock. 

Bane growls, and through the soupy, heady haze, he feels Bane wrap his own fingers around John's hand, squeezing and thrusting into their fists. John can hear the loud, harsh sound of Bane nearing his climax. He snarls, the sound almost inhuman, and Bane's cock grows impossibly harder in his grip. He can feel Bane's come pulsing out of him, leaving John's hand warm and slick and _wet_. 

They pull back a moment later and John slides to the floor, his softening dick still hanging out ridiculously. A touch to his face makes him look up, at the looming shape of Bane above him, supporting himself against the wall with his right forearm. He touches John's face for what seems like a long time, just stroking and petting. John doesn't pull away. He doesn't know if he even wants to. 

“I think you should return with me tonight, Officer Blake,” Bane finally says. John snorts and tries to turn his face at that, communicate how very fucking much that is _not_ happening without words. Bane's hand goes hard immediately, fingers digging in under John's chin and keeping him from jerking away, keeping their eyes locked. 

“That was not a request.” 

John's heart stutter-stops in his chest. 

He's in so much fucking trouble. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://smugrobotics.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Based on this prompt: http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/3076.html?thread=2505732


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